


the garden of forking paths

by attheborder



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Ficlet Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:55:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24081661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder
Summary: Short fics written for Tumblr, FFA, and Discord, collected here for archival purposes.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 46
Kudos: 128





	1. Chapter 1

_[Written for the prompt "Halloween,"](https://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com/post/188668101147/ac-prompt-spooky-since-it-is-close-to) set in the story universe of "[it's a new craze." ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20062966)_

Aziraphale pushed open the door to Crowley’s flat and called out, “Hello!”

His voice echoed around the slate cavern of the flat, and bounced back unreturned.

It was already a few minutes past their usual recording time, so he’d expected Crowley to be waiting for him, feigning righteous annoyance but only managing fondness, as he always did when Aziraphale was late, which was regrettably often. 

But the demon hadn’t greeted him at the door, and Aziraphale couldn’t hear any sound coming from inside.

“Crowley? Hello?”

Moving into the room, Aziraphale could see that the recording rig was all set up and ready to go on Crowley’s big marble desk— there was even the little red light on the interface, warning of a recording in progress— but no Crowley. 

How _odd._

Aziraphale sat down at his usual seat, across from the open laptop, and for want of anything else to do, took the bundle of letters for that week’s show out from inside his coat, and began to flip through them.

By the time he’d selected a few seasonally appropriate queries, regarding everything from workplace costume contests to settling arguments over candy superiority, a fair few minutes had passed, and there was _still_ no sign of the flat’s resident demon.

Aziraphale stared with guarded intent at the laptop, gave the room one last sweep with careful eyes, and then quickly circled around the desk and sat down in Crowley’s chair. 

The computer was open and unlocked, the recording program chugging away. With delicate care, Aziraphale navigated away from the application, and then—

“Nononono!”

Aziraphale’s hand flew away from the keyboard and his head shot back, tilting up towards the source of the noise.

“Crowley! What on _earth_ are you doing up _there?_ ”

The light on the audio interface blinked at him out of the corner of his eye, and Aziraphale clarified: “Listeners, he was hiding from me _on the ceiling.”_

“We’re going to have to cut that out,” said Crowley, from his perch, crouched on the dark ceiling of the room for all the world like a Balmain-wearing bat.

“Why? You didn’t have a problem upping the ante last week to include you summoning endless cans of that fizzy flavor water to the desk without _ever_ getting up for the fridge.”

“Fine. Whatever. Anyway, if you must know, I was going to _spook_ you.”

“ _Spook_ me?”

“Scare you! You know, spooky! Happy Halloween! I was gonna wait five more minutes, ratchet up the tension, and then, you know, um. _Boo._ Perfect episode opener. But then you had to go _snooping,_ like the— the— _snoopy snoop_ you are—”

“I wasn’t _snooping!”_

Crowley smirked at him from the ceiling. Aziraphale’s neck was beginning to hurt, craning up to look at him like that, and it was with a hint of peevishness that he continued, “I was going to leave a little note for you, actually. To find later. _Hello, darling, just a little reminder that I love you. Now back to Twitter for you,_ that sort of thing.”

“…Oh.”

“Anyway, that settles it,” said Aziraphale, standing from Crowley’s chair, and walking a few steps to the left so he was directly underneath him as he stared up. “We’d best progress our discussions about me moving in, because you are driving yourself _up the_ _wall_ here on your own.”

“Fuck, angel,” said Crowley. “ _Terrible_ pun.”

“Now, you come down here this instant, we’ve got an episode to record.”

“Okay. You ready?”

“Ready for wh— OH!”

With a soft whoosh, Crowley dropped down from the ceiling, and landed, with an easy, agile grace, right in Aziraphale’s arms.

“He caught me, listeners,” said Crowley, towards the microphone.

Aziraphale laughed. “Don’t I always?”

> **@Phoebe_Loop13**  
>  FJSDFSD THE HALLOWEEN EPISODE “he caught me” IM GOING TO KERMIT
> 
> **@lovetogetdone**  
>  **@Phoebe_Loop13** the thing is i dont even care how ham-handed and overdone the stupid fallen angel metaphor they’re featuring this season is, as long as we get crowley _saying things_ in _that voice_ its like… they could be rping vegetables for all my gay heart cares
> 
> **@Phoebe_Loop13**  
>  **@lovetogetdone** LMFAO I KNOW its almost hilarious how low my standards are for these mfers … It’s The Audible Love !!!!!!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this one](https://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com/post/188976111607/the-ineffable-plan-episode-31) is also set in the universe of ["it's a new craze."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20062966)

**THE INEFFABLE PLAN - EPISODE 31**

**CROWLEY:** … and in conclusion, the no-pet policy of your apartment complex is null and void in this case, and really, in all cases. Fill the place with snakes! You have _my_ blessing. If your landlord has a problem with it, have him write in to the show.

 **AZIRAPHALE:** You are a menace, Crowley.

 **CROWLEY:** Compliment accepted.

 **AZIRAPHALE:** Now, let’s see….

 **CROWLEY:** Aziraphale, before you read the next one, I have a little challenge for you.

 **AZIRAPHALE** : Ooh, go on.

 **CROWLEY:** I want you to give me three guesses as to what the acronym RPF stands for.

 **AZIRAPHALE:** Hm. Any hints?

 **CROWLEY:** No hints. Now…. guess!

 **AZIRAPHALE:** My, let’s see… RPF. Royal Performance Facility?

 **CROWLEY:** No.

 **AZIRAPHALE** : Er, Reels Per Foot?

 **CROWLEY:** Nope.

 **AZIRAPHALE:** Oh, I’ve got it, I’ve got it. Rabbit Proof Fence. 

**CROWLEY:** Ding ding ding, WRONG.

 **AZIRAPHALE:** Oh. Well— well, what _is_ it then?

 **CROWLEY:** Let me tell you a tale, angel. A tale of the internet. I was googling myself the other day— yes, I know, awful habit, but it’s better on the body than cigarettes— and I came across something quite interesting. Have you ever heard of _Real Person Fiction?_

 **AZIRAPHALE:** Why, of course. A great deal of fictional literature deals with real people, as it were— historical novels, autobiographical fiction— even Dante’s Inferno could be considered a work of Real Person Fiction, in that sense—

 **CROWLEY:** Yeah, yeah, yeah, alright, but I’m talking about a very specific subgenre here.

 **AZIRAPHALE:** I’m sorry, I’m just not quite sure what you mean.

 **CROWLEY:** Let me read you a title and summary of one of these fantastic works, and see if that helps you understand.

[clears throat]

_“Closer To You by alannasaurus. Rated E. Seven thousand, six hundred nineteen words. Fandom: The Ineffable Plan (Podcast) RPF. Relationship: Anthony J. Crowley/Aziraphale Fell. Tags: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, 1990s, One Night Stand, Wall Sex, Drugs, Coming Untouched, Inspired By Cinderella, sweaty sweaty boys_

_Summary: In the damp, dark clubs of London’s garage scene, junior promoter Anthony Crowley keeps seeing a beautiful young man, appearing every night like a ghost, and disappearing before he can get a chance to dance with him. As they’re drawn together by the lights and the bass, Crowley will get more than he bargained for from the dancer only known as AZ._

_A/N This is all the fault of Crowley’s line in Episode 28 about how Aziraphale is a better dancer than him. I just couldn’t resist, OK…”_

**AZIRAPHALE:** Oh.

 **CROWLEY:** … What the heaven is that _look?_ I thought you’d be blushing out the door by now at all that—

 **AZIRAPHALE:** Are you going to keep going?

 **CROWLEY:** What—? I only got permission to read one of these on the— Christ, Aziraphale. I should’ve known. You’ve got a computer, you can find the rest of it on your own!

 **AZIRAPHALE:** (eagerly) Do you think so?

 **CROWLEY:** Oh, I regret _everything._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for the [Tumblr prompt "rings,"](https://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com/post/188644991417/rings-and-ac-for-the-ficlet-prompts-if-you) set in the universe of [dearly departed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20403217/chapters/48395410)

In the past, when Crowley had approached his telephone to dial Aziraphale, picked up the handset only to change his mind and put it back down, there had been nobody around to see it. The world had gone on turning, with Aziraphale never the wiser that Crowley had been moments away from reaching out.

But now, in the close quarters of Aziraphale’s bookshop, as they packed up what seemed to be infinite boxes of books in the preparation for their Big Move, Aziraphale could not have missed Crowley’s restlessness and hesitation, lifting his head towards Aziraphale each time he passed as if about to speak, and then lowering it again in silence.

Finally, Aziraphale had had enough. He grabbed Crowley firmly by the upper arm, and said, “Out with it.”

Crowley squirmed under the gentle, insistent gaze of the angel. What was it they said on that outer space show he used to enjoy? _Resistance is futile._ Yes, that’s right.

Oh well, he might as well get it over with. He’d certainly been thinking about it long enough.

“I need you to get something from my storage unit,” Crowley said, relenting. “I’d go myself, but—“

“You’re technically dead, I know,” Aziraphale said, with an indulgent smile. Then he frowned. “But you said just the other day you didn’t want to bring anything from there. I _asked_ you.”

Crowley shrugged. “Changed my mind.”

“Alright,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll make an afternoon of it, and bring us some lunch in on the way back—“

“I can drive you,” offered Crowley quickly, but Aziraphale was having none of it. “Oh, I don’t think so. You have plenty to do here,” he said, waving a cheeky hand at the chaos that surrounded them. _I see your game,_ thought Crowley fondly, as Aziraphale went on: “Now, what is it you want me to fetch, dear?”

Crowley carefully wrote down a location in the vault on a scrap of paper and handed it over, but now not even the most wide-eyed pleas from Aziraphale could cajole the answer out of him.

“Won’t be hard to spot,” he promised. “Just call me if you have any questions.”

*

Upon arriving at the vault, Aziraphale had to remind himself once more that he was here on a _mission_ , and could not _possibly_ spend any time dilly-dallying amongst the statues and shelves, perusing the place like a personal museum.

 _Only_ twenty minutes later, he was finally making his way over to the wide black cabinet along the east wall indicated by Crowley’s note. He pulled open the long, flat drawer marked with a 4, as requested, and stareddown into its contents.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Oh, my.”

Not a moment later he was pulling out his ancient flip phone and dialing Crowley.

“There a problem, angel?” said Crowley upon answering.

“I— well—“

“You find it alright?”

“I’m— I’m not sure,” stammered Aziraphale. “There’s rather a lot to choose from, and you— you didn’t say which one…”

For inside the drawer were dozens of rings, arranged neatly in rows set into black velvet. Gold rings, silver rings, delicate bronze hoops and thick stone circles; some shining with jewels and some plain as paper.

Crowley was not a hoarder like Aziraphale, an indiscriminate enthusiast, a materialist with an appetite. No, he was a careful curator, a most selective aesthete; every ring in this drawer must have had a story, a meaning, a memory attached to it.

“See a pair you like?” came Crowley’s voice in Aziraphale’s ear.

“I’m sorry?” said Aziraphale, on autopilot as he ran a gentle finger over the rows of smooth, beautiful forms.

“I _said,_ see a pair you like,” repeated Crowley, and now Aziraphale was tuned in to the sound of the demon’s voice, fancied he could hear it shaking, just a bit, underneath all that confidence and bluster, and he understood why it had taken a hand on his shoulder and a steady gaze to get Crowley to ask Aziraphale to come here.

“Are you implying what I think you’re implying?”

“That depends on what you think I’m implying,” Crowley replied, the very snake.

“It sounds to me,” Aziraphale said, concentrating very hard on not letting himself get choked up, “as if you would like me to pick two rings from this collection, for— for us to wear, as our wedding rings.”

“Aren’t you the clever one.”

“But these are _your_ rings,” said Aziraphale. “Oughtn’t you be the one to—“

“Of course not,” said Crowley. “Your call, angel. Always your call. Go on, pick two. One for me, one for you. We wouldn’t want the villagers to think their new neighbors are living in sin, now would we?”

“We certainly wouldn’t,” said Aziraphale, with a happy sigh.

*

Some time later, as the two of them stood amidst the half-filled crates that occupied near every square foot of the bookshop floor, Aziraphale slipped a graceful obsidian ring around Crowley’s finger, set with stripes of silver. He held Crowley’s hand in his, admiring the way the inlay caught the light, for a good long while before Crowley gently lifted it away, and slid home onto the angel’s ring finger a rose-gold band inset with dark red stones.

“Are they alright?” Aziraphale asked quietly. “It took me ages to choose, I wasn’t sure—"

“They’re perfect,” said Crowley, “ _because_ you chose them.”

Aziraphale blushed, and buried his head in Crowley’s warm chest. “Oh, I _am_ going to miss this place,” he said, apropos of nothing except, you know, everything. “I really never thought I’d leave.” 

“Don’t tell me,” said Crowley knowingly, a hand in Aziraphale’s hair, “but you’re happy to be leaving, because you’re doing it with me.” 

“It’s not all about _you,”_ said Aziraphale defensively, but it was a useless pretense, and they both knew it, and they both laughed. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt, "100 words of innocuous things being considered smut"

Aziraphale had sent Crowley out to fetch some more packing tape, and then had immediately expended a quick miracle to make sure all the postal supply stores in the vicinity were totally sold out. This would force Crowley to travel further than planned to retrieve some, thereby keeping him away for an adequate amount of time.  
  
This was not a particularly angelic action, but it had been a necessary one, due to the sensitive nature of the materials Aziraphale was currently carefully stowing into cardboard boxes.  
  
The whole bookshop, of course, was his collection. But this, this here— this was his Collection.  
  
And Crowley could never, ever know about it.  
  
Honestly, Aziraphale thought, he really ought to use this opportunity to get rid of it. After all, they were about to _move in together,_ for Heaven’s sake. He wouldn’t even _need_ it anymore— hadn’t for a while, really.  
  
But nostalgia was a powerful force, and for Aziraphale in particular it was an incurable personality trait, as essential to his very being as his wings or his halo.  
  
Anyway, Aziraphale had been exceedingly proud of his little plan to get Crowley out of the way. Unfortunately, distracted by pride, he had completely failed to take into account Crowley’s ability to be, well— _Crowley._  
  
It was a mere five minutes after the demon sauntered out the door that he returned, hooting in triumph and waving a packing tape dispenser.  
  
“Didn’t even make it to the shop! That fancy furniture place down the block is moving out too, so I just nicked this from one of the blokes in the— what’s that? What’ve you got?” Crowley was beside Aziraphale in a flash, craning to see the precious objects the angel had been so eager to hide from him.  
  
“Nothing. It’s— nothing!”  
  
Aziraphale tried to quickly push a nearby pile of books in on top of what he’d already packed away, but it was a wildly ineffectual cover-up. Crowley had already gotten one of Aziraphale’s most prized Collection items into his cursedly curious hands, and was looking from its cover to Aziraphale with a bemused expression.  
  
“Aziraphale— why’ve you got— a bunch of _snake magazines?!”_  
  
“…. Er.” Aziraphale was rooted on the spot.  
  
Crowley started flipping through _Snakes of Oceania,_ his shades sliding slowly down his nose as his mouth dropped wider and wider.  
  
And then he reached a certain page, Aziraphale only needed to catch the barest glimpse out of the corner of his eye to instantly know _which_ page, it featured a _stunning_ Australian red-bellied black snake, coiled up ever-so-gracefully, and Crowley sniffed, as though catching a whiff of something, and _then—_ oh, good Lord, he _flicked_ his tongue out, right up against the page. The face Crowley made as he recognized a scent he knew very well by now was purely salt in the wound to Aziraphale.  
  
_“Aziraphale._ You do _not.”_  
  
“Not _anymore!”_ Aziraphale practically whined, making to snatch the magazine out of Crowley’s hands, but the demon held it up and out of his reach like a schoolyard bully, grinning wickedly.  
  
“You _got off_ to this? Before—“  
  
“Yes, well,” interrupted Aziraphale, still reaching helplessly for his contraband, “we all had our _coping strategies,_ didn’t we, Sir Plant Abuse—“  
  
“Alright, alright,” said Crowley, and dropped the magazine into the box with the rest of them. Then he pushed his shades back up, and brought himself chest to chest with Aziraphale, who had gone quite red and was currently making desperate eye contact with the rug.  
  
With a finger, Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s chin so he could meet his gaze.  
  
“When we’re done here, and we start over on my place,” he said, in a sweet, low rumble, “I just want you to know— I’ve got a _great camera.”_  
  
“… Oh?”  
  
“And a lot of _really_ photogenic backdrops.”  
  
“Is that so.“  
  
“And a top-of-the-line printer. You see where I’m going with this?”  
  
Aziraphale nodded, willing himself not to smile, but it was happening anyway, at the thought of what Crowley was offering.  
  
“I rather think I do, yes.” He looked around at the chaotic, half-packed bookshop, and then back to Crowley. “… But, ah. _Must_ it wait until we’re done here?”  
  
Crowley threw his head back in a laugh, and then darted in for a cheeky kiss, which Aziraphale received with pleasure.  
  
Then Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, and began leading him towards the door. “Course not. Come on, angel, there’s no time like the present. I’m thinking, for a title: _Playsnake._ How’s that sound?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt, "100 words of lectures about not feeding ducks bread"

“You’re kidding. _”_  
  
“I’m very serious! It isn’t good for them, my dear.”  
  
“Says who?”  
  
“I read it,” said Aziraphale, a smug smile perched implacably on his pink lips, “on the Internet.”  
  
Crowley groaned, slapping a hand to his face. You teach an angel how to use a smartphone _one time,_ mostly for your own peace of mind so that you don’t ever lose track of him again, and he immediately starts spouting eco-friendly nonsense. Just Crowley’s luck.  
  
“You see, a carbohydrate-rich diet simply isn’t healthy for ducks. It can lead directly to malnutrition, and aggression… really, dear, do look it up, there’s quite a lot of literature on the subject.”  
  
“Oh, come on, they’re _ducks!_ They fucking _love_ bread! Can’t get enough of the stuff!”  
  
“Yes, and you love careening down Piccadilly at a hundred miles per hour, but that doesn’t mean it’s _safe_ or _advisable.”_  
  
Crowley harrumphed a wordless noise of objection, and then looked down at the plastic baggie of seeds and peas held in Aziraphale’s well-manicured hands. He fondly recalled the way Aziraphale’s plump fingers used to tear so confidently at each slice of rye or challah— it just wasn’t the same, watching him pick the seeds out carefully and toss them over.  
  
Crowley gave the ducks a long, considered look. They were bobbing around in the water with considerably less ducky enthusiasm than he was accustomed to, seeming altogether downtrodden and peaky.  
  
He noted that the other people at the water’s edge, an even mix of tourist families and clandestine agents, were also tossing out a variety of depressingly healthy offerings. The Russian cultural attache had replaced his black bread with frozen grapes, which the ducks were sluggishly dodging to avoid like a pond-based game of Asteroids.  
  
Strains of Sarah McLachlan began to filter through Crowley’s mind’s ear as he considered this horrible avian plight. Any demon’s blackened heart would be stirred by it, he thought, as he made eye contact with one particular scruffy and sad-looking mallard.  
  
Crowley offered a conspiratorial nod, and the duck quacked morosely in response.  
  
“I got you,” he muttered. “Leave it to me.”  
  
“What’s that, Crowley?”  
  
Crowley stuck his hands in his pockets, clever mind abuzz with what he was already certain would be one of his Greatest Hits, and grinned over at Aziraphale. “Nothing, angel. Didn’t say anything at all.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt, "100 words of suddenly having new body parts"

Aziraphale knew it wasn’t allowed.  
  
He’d been fairly certain from the start that it wasn’t the done thing, despite lack of clear guidelines. And then, of course, he’d attended the interminable, mandatory all-hands trainings after the Nephilim fiasco and his suspicions had been confirmed. In explicit detail. Over the course of many PowerPoints.  
  
So, yes. He knew very well that manifesting genitalia went beyond an angel’s duty on Earth, and really, had never needed to give it any more thought than that. He wasn’t interested in that sort of thing, anyway, and never had been. Total non-issue.  
  
Which is why he was stunned and utterly confused and just a bit scared when he felt a sudden, hot weight bloom between his legs, watching Crawly— no, Crowley now— suck down an oyster in the back booth at Petronius’s.  
  
Instinctively, he slowly maneuvered a hand underneath the table, and ghosted his fingertips over that strange new presence, feeling the outlines of its girth, the barest impression of hardness that, even as he investigated, keeping his eyes forward and focused innocently on Crowley, sent curious waves of deep sensation up into his stomach and chest.  
  
“Something wrong?” Crowley asked, peering over those ridiculous lenses at Aziraphale.  
  
“I— pardon?”  
  
“You brought me here, watched me choke down this bit of sea slime, and you’re not even going to do me the service of seeing you give it a go. I know you want to. For an angel, you love your Earthly pleasures.”

“Oh. Yes…” Aziraphale looked down at the waiting oysters on the table, glistening with salt and lime, and felt his mouth water in anticipation of its familiar, savory taste. Then he looked at his cup of wine, and his throat itched eagerly for its warm richness.  
  
He’d been eating and drinking for thousands of years. The Almighty obviously hadn’t minded. How was this— the new part he’d manifested, through an odd mechanic of his human corporation he’d never known— any different?  
  
Crowley’s face, illuminated by the glow of the lanterns, was like a sculpture carved by a master. It was a pleasure to look at him, Aziraphale realized, a pleasure so deep that his human body had no choice but to respond.  
  
As he sucked down the oyster, humming in satisfaction, Crowley gave a laugh of delight, and the clouds of guilt that had gathered threateningly at the edges of Aziraphale’s mind dissipated entirely, lost to the light of enjoyment.  
  
Over the course of the meal, after more wine and more food and more laughter, he eventually felt the heat underneath his toga calm, and felt a bit bereft at the loss of it. He reassured himself with another light touch that it was still there, just resting.  
  
Crowley eventually took his leave, creeping off to cause chaos elsewhere in the city, but Aziraphale didn’t mind perhaps as much as he usually might. He had plans of his own, involving his brand new body part, and all the things he could learn about it. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the prompt, "100 words of inept roleplaying"

“You’ve been a very, very bad angel, haven’t you?”

Aziraphale squirmed underneath the restraints, panting and sweating. “I’m sorry,” he cried, “I swear, I’ll never do it again!”

He closed his eyes and flinched away as Crowley came close, the demon’s clawed fingers outstretched, each spindly finger coated in black scales that trailed up his hand. He’d done such a wonderful job on the _look,_ listening patiently to Aziraphale describe the precise degree of monstrosity he desired. His hair tumbled down in tangled curls, his teeth elongated into vicious serpentine fangs. His eyes were fully yellow, gleaming and slitted, and demonic energy rolled off of him in lush, powerful waves.

It was all very lovely. But it may have given Aziraphale unreasonable expectations.

“You’ve, um, done _really_ bad things,” Crowley was saying. Although, his inflection rose at the end, so it sounded more like a question than a statement of fact.

Aziraphale opened one eye. Crowley was now frowning down at him, scratching his head innocently with one of his claws. Not exactly the use Aziraphale had been envisioning for them.

“I’ll have to punish you,” Crowley said, and then added, as if as an afterthought, “… Pretty severely.”

He _obviously_ wasn’t fully committing. Aziraphale dug in his metaphorical heels, and let out a brutally realistic moan of distress, drawing on all his fantasies over the millennia. Maybe if Crowley saw, really _saw,_ how much effort Aziraphale was putting in, he’d understand he needed to step it up just a bit.

“Don’t, please, don’t!” Aziraphale howled. “I’ll do anything!”

“Anything, huh?” Crowley said, a hint of a threat returning to his low growl. Aziraphale’s heart sped up in anticipation. Surely now Crowley would warm to the role, rip his pleasure from Aziraphale, as brutal and rapacious as they’d discussed.

Instead he let out a choking stammer. “Oh. Er. Well, you know, I actually hadn’t really thought this far ahead…”

Aziraphale sighed. It was going to be a long night.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written for the Discord prompt: Must include the phrase, "I hated that wallpaper, anyway."

“And then I said, _I think it would be best for everyone, if I were left alone in future_.” 

“Whoa,” said Anathema, impressed.

“And then what?” asked Newt. 

“And then I left!” Aziraphale replied with a grin. 

“... Just like that?” Newt said. 

He and Anathema were on the edge of their seats. Aziraphale gave a proud wiggle in his, and said, “Just— like—  _ that!”  _

“That’s— that’s brilliant,” said Newt, starry-eyed and open-mouthed.

Crowley scoffed, and extended his sprawl on the sofa. “You want brilliant, you should hear what  _ I  _ did.” 

“Oh, yes, you really should,” Aziraphale said, patting Crowley on the hand, and then leaned forward. “He always needs the last word,” he slyly intoned to their hosts, as if Crowley couldn’t hear, “so you must humor him, perhaps with applause, even a  _ huzzah _ or two…” 

“Oi!” Crowley croaked, jostling Aziraphale with a bony elbow. 

“Go on, my dear,” Aziraphale said, settling back in his seat, and motioning for Crowley to begin his own tale. 

Crowley gave him one last sneer, and then leapt to his feet, jumping right into it. “Okay. So. They got me in the park, great big  _ fleet  _ of bloody angels, and I could’ve taken them if I  _ really  _ wanted to, but I just put up a bit of a fight for show, you know….” 

He ran through the whole thing, reveling, as he always did, in the simple pleasure of having a captive audience. Multiple times, he pointed at a projector screen that was certainly not there, and had to resort to increasingly fervent gesticulations as he described what had gone down upstairs. His impression of Gabriel, facial expressions and all, was so accurate as to send an irrational shiver down Aziraphale’s spine. 

“Can you _ really _ breathe fire?” asked Anathema tentatively, as Crowley’s retelling reached its climax. 

“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” said Crowley, his grin growing ever more demonic. “I can do hellfire, regular fire, ice-flame, black ichor, foul miasmas, poison gas, whatever you want. All standard issue for demonic corporations, mostly to use downstairs against the others... Though, I could never quite figure out what the rosewater mist was for....”

“Would you— I mean, if you don’t want to, no pressure, but, er, could you demonstrate?” 

“Newt!” Anathema admonished. “You can’t just  _ ask him  _ to— to—” 

“He can, he did, and oh, I will,” said Crowley. “Check this shit out.” 

He cracked his knuckles, stretched his shoulders, and opened his mouth. A massive gush of flame poured out, orange at first but then streaked through with black, and then colors darker than black, deep inside of which awful things swam, sickening squirming forms, grotesque and impossible—

“Um. Whoops,” said Crowley, as the smoke cleared away, and revealed a massive, smoldering hole in the cottage wall. “May have overdone it. A bit. I’m really sorry… ” 

“It’s okay. I hated that wallpaper anyway,” said Newt, in a high, shaky voice, and then fell down in a dead faint on the carpet. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Discord prompt: "Six weeks after the world doesn't end, Aziraphale shows up at Crowley's flat holding a book."

“Aziraphale, I thought we were going to watch the movie together!” 

“What? Of course we are!” 

“Then what’s—  _ that?”  _

It must have been a sign of how utterly striking it still was for Aziraphale to be here, practically glowing in the dark of Crowley’s flat, that it had taken Crowley a full five minutes to recognize that the smart-looking leather bag he’d brought along with him was the very same bag that had once held an important assortment of books of prophecy. 

To be fair, he’d been distracted by how Aziraphale had immediately begun pulling things out of said bag and setting them down on Crowley’s marble desk— more items it should’ve rightfully been able to hold, but of course the angel had always had a fondness for doing odd things with space, the natural obverse of Crowley’s hobby of messing about with time (see: his bookshop’s habit of containing both a second-floor mezzanine complete with skylight,  _ and _ a cozy second-floor flat with identical square footage.)

There were bottles of wine, blocks of cheese, cured meats, boxes of grapes and strawberries. Bags of nuts, sparkling water, carrots and hummus. 

And then— a book. A lovely, gilt-edged antique book, bound in blue leather.

“Oh, this?” says Aziraphale lightly, looking over at it as he arranged the foodstuffs. “Well, dear, it’s a book.”

Crowley groaned. “ _ Obviously.  _ But, angel, why’ve you brought it?” 

Aziraphale’s capacity to look utterly innocent, Crowley decided, was one of Earth’s greatest natural resources, and ought to be investigated as a source of clean, renewable energy. 

“Well,” he said slowly, bringing over his completed, cluttered charcuterie, “it’s for me to read.” 

Crowley was pretty sure he’d lost the plot entirely. “Yup. Yeah. Got that bit. But we’re going to watch the movie. Surely you’re not going to….?“ 

“Oh, no!” fluttered Aziraphale. “Perish the thought. It’s for after. You know— you’ll be sleeping, but as you know I’m not in the habit, so I thought I’d bring something along to keep me occupied.” 

Crowley gaped. “… After?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened in mortified realization. “Am I— oh, I’m so sorry, how presumptuous of me to assume— oh dear, it’s just— the last time I was here I  _ did  _ stay over, and I remember so wishing I’d had a book with me, but of course this time I can always— yes, of course, I’ll be going home when we’re done—“ 

Whatever Aziraphale was doing with his face now, Crowley wanted it to stop at once. The only surefire way he could figure out how was to lunge forward across the sofa and simply fling his arms around the angel. “No, no, no,” he said emphatically, burying his head in Aziraphale’s chest. “Course you’re staying over. I should’ve— angel, of course. Of course.” 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and his sigh of relief was like a warm wave against Crowley. “Oh, thank you.”

“Mm. S’fine. Yeah,” Crowley said, and switched on the movie before he could make an even bigger fool of himself.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Discord prompt, "This better not awaken anything in me."

It is not an easy thing to ask. Even for Crowley, whose primordial existence has long revolved around questions, it is not easy.

But he manages, eventually. 

“Do you— do you think you could possess me?” 

The angel takes it in his stride. He is not, after all, easily surprised by much of anything— he sends would-be bookshop burglars away with cake. 

“Is that what you want?” 

There is a nod. A look, askance, away—  _ quickly, before he sees how damn much.  _

“Is that— what you’ve wanted, this whole time?” 

How to get it across, when he comes over tongue-tied at the very thought? How to tell that ever since that day the end hadn’t come, when he’d witnessed Aziraphale inhabiting a human, and heard his stories later of all the others, he’d been chased by a singular desire?

Which is: to be consumed, controlled. To be driven, the way he drives his precious car; to have the angel’s foot at his brake, slowing him down when he cannot slow himself. Soft, manicured hands on the wheel of his ancient heart, doing exactly what they would with it, and nothing else.

What will Aziraphale find inside him? A smoldering, cratered emptiness, a marred and barren moonscape where nothing grows, nothing survives. Shards and splinters and jagged things— things that could rip and tear, were it not for the fact of Aziraphale’s sheer strength, his sturdy permanence protecting him with ease. 

And, well. It’s not as if Aziraphale hasn’t been inside him before. Crowley has a very vivid imagination— he can easily summon the weight of Aziraphale’s cock in his mouth, the sensation of soft fingers circling his hole, slick as they press in. The memory of Aziraphale’s tongue, moving against his, delighting in finding the thin edges of his crooked teeth. It should be enough to survive on. 

But Crowley is greedy, always has been. He is greedy and curious and the angel may love to eat but Crowley was born hungry, he thinks. What a shame, that he still wants to be filled up.

“I do believe I can, yes,” Aziraphale says, finally, slow and thoughtful, “shall I—?”

“ _ Please.” _

And then, he does. 

Crowley gives himself up entirely to the light as it enters, spreads itself through his veins, a cold freshwater flood cleaning him out, sweeping charred dust from his corners.

He tries to move a hand, finds he cannot. It is not his hand anymore. It belongs to the angel— all of him is Aziraphale, toe to tip of hellfire hair. The resistance, the drag of it is so intense, his lack of command so complete, that he’s hardening almost shamefully fast, blood rushing in response.

A laugh bubbles up from his throat, a laugh that is not his. It breaks his mouth open into a wide, foreign smile.

“Everything happens so quickly with you, my dear,” his throat says with Aziraphale’s voice. “It’s lovely. What shall I do now?” 

_ Anything you want, angel,  _ he thinks.  _ I’m all yours. _


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, "100 words of hatesex with yourself"

He’s so fucking _stupid,_ and stupid- _looking_ too, white robe shining with cloying goodness and those gooey green eyes, which never did anything for him, the ones he has now just accentuate his cheekbones so much better. Plus, green against the red hair just looks like bloody Christmas.  
  
Not to say Crowley isn’t _attractive_ as an angel, he obviously is, or else he wouldn’t be bothering here, would he? It isn't every day you get the chance to deflower yourself. Worthy of some kind of Pride-related commendation, surely.  
  
But Satan in Hell, he’s _annoying,_ all questions, an endless burbling fount of _how’d you get here?_ and _what are you?_ and _what’s a demon, then?_ and—  
  
“What are you _doing?_ I don't think I'm supposed to—"  
  
“Oh, shut up, will you,” snaps Crowley, getting his fingers around his past self’s cock, and starting up a most favored and practiced rhythm.  
  
“That feels— nnh, _ah—“_ the angel cries out underneath him, writhing ostentatiously beneath Crowley’s touch.  
  
“Yeah, got that bit,” Crowley says, rolling his eyes.  
  
God, is he really that _loud_ in bed? He wants to slap a gag on this idiot as he goes on babbling and shrieking; it’s a wonder Aziraphale hasn’t ever done it before, honestly.  
  
His face as he comes off into Crowley’s hand is not quite as bad as Crowley had feared, thankfully— though that might have been down to the off-setting effect of the impossibly luxurious waves of auburn hair surrounding it.  
  
“Mm. Right, then. Now you know,” says Crowley, looking down at the mess he’s made of himself.  
  
The angel blinks up at him, surfacing through levels of post-orgasmic bliss.  
  
“Your turn?” he asks woozily, Eden-green eyes flicking down to below Crowley’s belt.  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
Well, when in Heaven.


End file.
